


Kaddish

by MaryEllen



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-08-09 16:50:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16453700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryEllen/pseuds/MaryEllen
Summary: Alfie was prepared that Tommy would come and kill him. What he was not prepared for, was that Tommy didn't kill him. At least for now.





	1. An unexpected visitor

I don't know what to say, just that I try...to write a story, which I had in mind immediately after watching season 4.

Mistvieh (German): bloody animal  
Schlamassel (Yiddish): Disaster or just not a good thing  
Double negation: It's typical in Yiddish to negate double: ain't never no good, means not it's a good thing, more it's like a very bad thing. Oh Gosh, I don't even know anymore, if that's something worth mentioning or not.  
Besides that I apologize for any mistake I've made, and I ask you to correct me please, if I spelled something wrong, or the grammar is absolute garbage. Besides that, I tried to write cockney English, and I absolutely have no fuckin idea if it worked.  
Yeah, strong language, sorry for that. Now, I just leave and hope it is somewhat readable. Again if you need to recover from my shitty writing I suggest to read whentommymetalfie. It's beyond anything, it's just beautiful and perfect. So, yeah, go read them instead of me XD.  
And now, the story.

___________________________________________________-

He hadn't expected Tommy. Not right now. Not...here.

"Im going to Margain field. Maybe I see you."  
This tired face of a done man had looked up.  
"Maybe....maybe I will come."

And there he was. He looked like a dead horse, Alfie once saw in France. Its eyes pitchblack, staring into absolutely nothing. It had lay on the side, its feet stuck in the barbwire. There had been blood fucking everywhere. Though there was no blood now, Tommy didn't look better than the fucking horse.  
It somehow worried Alfie.  
His hands wandered through his beard.

"What the actual fucking fuck are you doing here, mate?"  
Tommy took out a cigarette, his eyes looking left, right, then his eyes came back to Alfie and well, allright, Alfie hat to admit, this man truly was a sight. Damn these cheekbones and those blue eyes.  
"Well, you said you were here, so I came to visit."  
Alfie rolled with his eyes.  
"Tommy, sweetie, if you wanna kill me, just fucking do it, but not here, in my house, it’s too nice, you know the floor just been made and my brain would completely fucking destroy the whole picture and-"  
"They've killed Arthur."  
"What?"

Tommy took another deep, lungdestroying drag of these awful cigarettes. Seriously this man was addictive to all the things, that killed sooner than later. Alfie always suspected Tommy somewhat suicidal, he thought it’s the business with all this death, pain and shit that comes with it.  
Tommy threw the rest of this fucking smelling smogshitter into the mud. Blue eyes pierced him down.

"Can I come in?"

What was Alfie supposed to say?

So he mumbled something into his beard and by God the Almighty this was not gonna end well, he felt it in his blood.

It’s strange to have Thomas fucking Shelby in ones owned home. Alfie had the feeling that this man, these cheekbones, this coat, everything, that this man belonged somewhere absolutely beautiful. He reminded Alfie of a prince, from the fairytales, who got lost and found himself suddenly in a very dirty, fucking shithole, where he couldnt get out of. Yeah, alright, Tommy had the face of a fucking prince, all this royal blood and so on. He didn't belong here. The house was nice but it was small, it wasn’t made for these eyes, this coat, these cheekbones.

"Alfie stop thinking, it scares actually the living shit out of me."

Alfie blinked. They were already in the kitchen and Tommy was, Jesus, his mother and all his siblings too, Tommy had a cigarette again between his lips. Alfie would never admit it, but he would like to be these cigarettes sometimes, like now, yeah would be a good time to be a cigarette and-

"I'm sorry about A-"

Tommy just made a quick little shake with his hand and it was surprisingly enough for Alfie to get the message. Shut up, Alfie, please, for the love of God just stop talking. He had to smile. His sister had been the same, when he was younger he had rambled over the stupidest things. Back then her piercing look had been enough to shut him up for good.  
She had died of Tuberculosis.

He was going to die of cancer in his lung. He probably was going to die like his sister. Great thing that, innit?  
When Tommy spoke again, his voice was small, low, barely a whisper. Yet, Alfie had this sudden feeling of canonballs raining down on him.

"Why did you make a deal with Changretta?"

And when Tommy looked at him, it somehow moved something inside Alfie, which he thought had died during the war, at least when his mama had died.

Regret.

Alfie sat down, next to this smoking pimp. His right hand took Tommys, held it tight. His thumb made small circles all on Tommys scarred rough hand.

He could say something. But why the fuck should he do that now? He didn't say shit when his mama had died, besides the Kaddish.  
The same with his sister. When he had watched Schmuel, Moshe, Aaron...when they had died of this fucking gas attack and he as the youngest got the mask, he had watched. Just watching them die.

Sometimes you shouldn't say something. It won't bring someone back from the dead, or help them. Actually talking hurt much, much more than saying absolutely fucking nothing.  
On Tommy’s tenth cigarette, Alfie felt his eyes slowly shut down. He hadn't let go of Tommy’s hand. He didn't know why. Did it matter?  
A shuddering breath on Tommy's side woke him up a little.

"Is there a dog somewhere?"  
"What?"

Blue eyes glistened softly in the dark.

"Is there a dog Alfie Salomon. In.This.House. A. Dog. An animal that does fucking everything you ask it for?"  
"Yeah, yeah...there is. He's called Cyril and he's a fucking nice Mistvieh, so I would suggest, you play nice with him."  
"I hope you don't snore as loud as this animal does."  
"You gonna stay?"

There was this sound of a tongue twitching making a high pitch noise and yeah, again it reminded him of his sister.

So he fell to sleep.

He didn't dream. Dreaming wasn't his thing, it's more of a remembering thing. This night he remembered his family and it was a good thing, it was nice to see them all. He told them about his upcoming death and they nodded, smiled and waved at him. Death probably ain't that bad, ey?

"Alfie? Jesus fucking Christ, Alfie, are you there?"  
His lungs shuddered, his whole body trembled.

Blue eyes, like the fucking sea, like the south France sea, you know the one, the one with this blue you couldn't forget, damnit, this man shouldn't exist, Alfie wanted to shatter it, this beauty, but he was too weak for that. Fucking cancer.

"Oy mate, I'm fine, I'm fine, all good and bravo. No schlamassel here, now fuck off, I know that having a Shelby nearby ain't never no good."  
"You didn't breath anymore."  
"That so?"  
"Alfie?" Tommy's voice was soft. Gentle. God, he hated it.  
"What?"

Their eyes fixed on each other.

"Stay low, I'm gonna walk the dog. You stay in that bed."

And for the first time in his life, Alfie did what he was said to. He didn't say anything, just stayed low and tried to breath.  
It wasn't that he was religious. God had left him in the war. But...there was something in him, that didn't know exactly, if God existed or not, so killing himself hadn't been an option, it was just...no, you don't do that. No one speaks the Kaddish for you, if you kill yourself and Ollie would have a Trauma for the rest of his Jewish life. So the deal with Changretta wasn't out of spite, or something, it was more this idea, that Tommy would finally fucking do it. Fucking kill him. 

But now he walked the dog and told Alfie to stay in bed. He...oh God...not again, he turned to the side and there it was. It was a difficult thing to describe. Suddenly everything swirled, around you, but worse, in you and you had this urge to throw up everything, everything in your whole body, organs, bones, fucking everything on the floor. And he was weak, fucking weak, his hand lying there, because he was too weak to move it. Come on, come on, he can't just throw up on his own bed?

How the flying fuck had he managed to get to bed?

And then a slap, it's a growing slap, it started in the middle and then grew, grew into a piercing sharp knife that crawled through his chest. And it hurt, by God, it hurt so goddamn much. And he couldn't help it, but he panicked, because he couldn't breathe and he wanted to throw up, wanted to die, wanted to die, wanted to die...  
His sister had fought against this sickness in her for good 6 fucking months. 6 months of spasms, of pain, of coughing blood, of tumbling, falling down the steps and her babies had to watch and it had been a fucking disaster.

If he hadn't been a fucking coward back then, he would have shot her. He knew God would have forgiven him for that. He had to.  
She had died during Hannukah, the only good thing of being Jewish, you could eat and just have a good time. But now, he hated it. He hated Hannukah, the candles, the food, everything. He-

"Alfie-"

The voice of a man can be frightening. He knew that from his father. But his father hadn't smoked that much, as this Godforsaken goj, so never his voice had never been this raspy. It reminded him of the war.

"You sound like my brothers smothering in gas. You should quit smoking."  
He was blind, too weak to open his eyes. A deep sigh rang in his ears. He had to grin.

"It's nice here, Alfie, really..."  
"God damn it, boy, you could fucking carry me in me own bed, stop pretending you can't carry me behind this house, shoot in me head and then let me rot there, or call Ollie."

Again tongue against teeth.

"I don't know if your dog would allow such a thing Alfie. And I would bury you."  
"Nah, man, you would call your fucking family to do this shitwork for you. You're beyond that already, you don't bury the people you murder, we both don't, takes up too much time, we would bury for the rest of our lives, my sweet, sweet Tommy, we wouldn't be what we are if we gave a piece of shit about what we're doing."

 

And in that, Tommy gave a silent agreement.


	2. Lullabye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm here, because I'm fucking done and a dying man is better than my whole family right now."

Hey,.....  
>.>.....  
<.<.  
I'm back? (throws glitter, then runs the other way while screaming: **THANKS FOR THE KUDOS!)**  
Meschugge- crazy (Yiddish)  
You negate twice in Yiddish just means no, like Why the flying fucking fuckface haven't you not said shit, means why haven't you said anything?  
Mammerle, brotherle, jungerle-- > Mum, brother, boy

By the way Arthur is really dead, I didn't like the ending in peaky blinders because come on! We the audience are not dumb, people die, people die thats how it should go...  
__________________________________________

 

He's meschugge. There could be no other explanation than that Tommy fucking Shelby was absolutely, completely and hopelessly meschugge. Why else would he be here? To antagonize him? To see him and make sure he's really dead?  
Alfie hadn't been afraid for a long, long time. Now he was. Because Tommy was standing there in his kitchen one of these bloody cigarettes in his stupid mouth and-  
"Some tea Alfie?" And these blue eyes... how, how (by Moshe and his stupid brother) should he die in peace if there's a Shelby looming in his kitchen?  
So Alfie did the only thing Alfie knew. He attacked.  
"What the ever living fuck are you still doing here, Tommy? Get the fuck out of my house."  
"Sugar?," Tommy asked non chalantly, took out two spoons.  
"Yeah, sugar, sure, why not, but seriously Tommy, what are you planning? Trying to get your whole family here having a great fucking after party if you finally killed me?"  
Tommy sighed softly. Took a drag of his almost dead cigarette, breathed, sighed again, took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes, put them back on.  
"I'm here, because I'm fucking done and a dying man is better than my whole family right now."  
So he crashed his cup on the table and whooshed out. And Alfie, well Alfie just stood there. Feeling pretty pretty shitty.  
______

Alfie never trusted anyone. But especially gojim, these weird people not celebrating shabbes, they were just...they had hunted his mammerle through the fucking snow, why would he fucking trust these people...  
But gipsies? Gipsies were a complicated field. It had been gipsies saving them from the gojim in Russia, these bastards hunting his family down. Aaron had carried him, he remembered. And then, like in the fairytales, the gipsies were there with their carriage and had saved their asses away from these gojim. So sure...making deals with gipsies wasn't really a problem. Sure, they would fuck him in the end, and he would fuck them back up, because business is business...  
But now he stood there, tired, done, naked feet, a vest on his chest and he felt....sad, not for him, but for this fucking bloody gipsy who had invited himself into his, Alfie's own house and now walked the fucking dog and asked him nicely, if he wanted tea and Alfie just...  
Fucked up.  
Like always.

  
He sighed, went to the table, took his cup and just sat down.  
_"What isserl, my Schatzerle?"_  
He hadn't dreamt of his mother for a while now and now, right now she just sat across from him knitting as always, clickidi clack, a sound Alfie hadn't heard for years.  
He was going slowly completely fucking nuts.  
_"Na, that ain't no true, my Schatzerle...you are not meschugge."_  
_"Mammerle, you are literally sitting across from me, though you are dead for over bloody 10 years....if I am not meschugge, then what else am I?"_  
Her fingers went on knitting, clicking softly, click clack.  
"You are lonely, my jungerle."  
Alfie's eyes turned into his head, then back and he almost threw his chair. He stood up, heat creeping up his neck. "Not again, by the Lord Himself-"  
" _Don't you curse upon his name!,_ " his mother said harshly, looking up and her brown eyes had a very stern look.  
" _Mammerle, we had talked this shit over and over, like, please, just-_ "  
He stopped midair. She was gone. Puff. Gone. No knitting, no clicking. Fucking silence.

He hated silence. His whole body ached.

  
_"Pain you have to work away," his father had always said. "No pain can't be dealed with. Job never accused God and so we won't as well, understood?" He had understood. He had understood everything. So the first time he had got shot he had fought on for days, until his brothers had to carry him to the doctor, because he couldn't walk anymore._  
_"Why the flying fucking fuckface haven't you not said shit, brotherle?," Aaron his oldest had asked. He had said it in Yiddish. He always had talked in Yiddish when he had been angry. He had been good in it. Alfie too, but not like Aaron and Moshe. He had been to young and English had taken over his tongue as if God himself had laid a note with a prohibition on every Yiddish word he had once known._  
_Swearing in Yiddish was a like lullabye for Alfie. Mammerle always spoke in Yiddish, so this language sounded like home._  
_Aaron held his hand, his brown eyes staring him down, just like the mama herself._  
_He had opened his mouth to answer._  
But in the end he had said nothing.

And so he stood in the kitchen, listening to two blackbirds arguing loudly, a clicking clock, naked feet and a buzzing head. He rolled up his sleeves.  
Time to bake some bread, wasn't it?

  
Tommy threw a stick for Cyril for probably the 100th time. He hated dogs. They weren't calm as horses. They were loud, drooling all over the coat, demanding, vibrant. Cyril brought him the stick. Tommy stroke Cyril, pulled the stick from its mouth and threw it again.  
_"Trying to get your whole family here, having a great fucking after party if you finally killed me?"_  
Alfie was right, what the everloving fuck was he doing here? Or rather. Why, oh fucking why hasn't he killed Alfie yet? He has made a fucking deal, with this fucking Italian Asshole-  
Cyril nudged its nose into his coat, he probably wanted another throw.  
Tommy sighed. Another throw it was.  
Arthur wasn't dead because of Alfie. This whole thing wouldn't have happend if _**he**_ , Tommy fucking Shelby, the idiotic gipsy of fucking Birmingham, hadn't told his brothers to murder Changretta Senior.  
It had been **_his_** fucking idea and now two of his brothers were fucking **_dead_**. His **_own_** brothers. Dead. Murdered. By him. His hands were twitching for a cigarette, but the wind was too strong to actually light one.  
And now he was at **_this_** place. He blinked. The sun was setting. The sea gurgling, the wind screaming in his ears.  
**_„Trying to get your whole family here, having a great fucking after party, if you finally killed me?“_**

  
His family would love it here.

Arthur would love it here. Probably stop drinking.

"Cyriiiiiil-," he screamed because that damn dog was bathing in the sea, having the time of his life and it was just too beautiful, too beautiful for Tommy to see, so he screamed his lungs out, but it was too loud, the waves, the wind everything screaming in his head.  
_Why are you here Tommy?_  
_Why?_

When he returned he found Alfie reading on the couch. It was a pieceful picture. Alfie with his glasses, the dark eyes following word for word, letter for letter. Tommy watched. Waited for anything to happen, so he wouldn't be the one in charge. Was that the reason to stand in Alfie Salomon's door and just watch him read a book?  
To finally breath in and out and no one fucking cared?

"Oii, Cyrill, my mate, you back?," Alfie laughed when this giant of a dog threw himself right on him. Cyril felt like the ocean itself. Absolutely wet. And now Alfie was wet. Cyrill's long tongue cleaned Alfie's face and he just let it happen. He never screamed at the dog. One shouldn't do that. Animals never do harm. So why scream at them?

"Cyrill, down!" A voice bellowed through the room. Cyrill immediately crouched down. Great. The gipsy was here for 24 fucking hours and Cyrill already listened to him? Alfie wanted to punch the gipsy, instead his lungs started to burn. He fell from the couch. _Not now, not now, by God, not when this fucking gipsy is here, please,_ everything turned upside down, his breath short.

When he woke up he was lying on the couch, a blanket over him. The smell of tea looming over him. He tried to move. His body started to shiver.  
_Fuck._

Tommy came two fucking minutes later and he looked as if Alfie had suddenly turned into a tiger. He had a fucking tea pot in his right hand and two cups in his left. He looked like a bloody housewife. Alfie couldn't help himself. He bursted into laughter. No normal, healthy laughter. He sounded like a fucking meschugge maniac. His lungs burned again, coughed, his body throwing itself off the couch, saliva leaving his mouth. But he stayed awake, still a cringy smile on his lips. Control yourself, come on, control yourself. He did it. He pushed himself on his knees, looked up at Tommy, but his body refused, falling in itself like a puppet. But he didn't fall. Tommy held him. His arms slung under his shoulders, to keep him up.

So they lay there. Alfie was barely awake in Tommy's arms and Tommy's body leaned against the couch. Both men were taking deep breaths, both their chests rising and falling.  
A shivering hand rose from the floor and Tommy took it. It was just like war. Holding dying comerades in your arms, awaiting their deaths.  
He lay his chin on top of Alfie's curly hair. And out of his chest came a deep sighing tone. A lullabye? He didn't know. But he was glad to be here. No man should die alone. Not even Alfie.


	3. Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death comes in strange ways...

Erez

His sister had always dreamt of Erez. She had dreamt of that shitty place since the day she was borne, Alfie was sure. A real little jew, dreaming of the holy land. As a child she had always wanted to listen to the stories of the old testament. Moshe, Abraham, Josef, Jacob, Ruth, Elijah...  
His father had loved his daughter more than he had ever loved anything else. That had been the reason his little sister could read already with 5 and he couldn't read one fucking Hebrew letter till he was 10, because he had needed fucking glasses since forever. The strange thing though was her love for him, for Alfie. Sure, father's stories were great but this little sparrow had always climbed into his and Aaron's bed and she had begged with her big brown eyes and her black beautiful locks framing her dolly face. It had been a fucking disaster. He and Aaron had had to work and that little monster just came and destroyed all their fucking hope for a good night sleep.-And yet, Alfie had to cry every godforsaken time he remembered these nights.  
He was crying silently, whispering the words of these stupid stories of magicians like Abraham and idiotic fathers like David. Normally Cyrill would be there to comfort him. But Cyrill was outside. With Tommy. This fucking gipsy had already taken his dog, what came next? Alfie had no dignity but pride. Oh....pride was a Jew's soul. You could beat a Jew, hang him, castrate him...he would still be quiet like a stone, staring at you with a absolute mindless look. But the moment you help a Jew. There was nothing more cruel for Alfie than a helping hand. You could not say no to a helping hand, because you have manners. But the only one to help a Jew was a fucking Jew, or God himself. That was the law. God was dead so, if Alfie should get help than it was by a Jew, not by a fucking Gipsy. He listened to Cyrills barking outside. Alfie rolled with his eyes. What a fucking disaster all of this was. He felt oddly better. No pain, nothing. Only a little shaking in his legs, that tied him to his bed. He felt so angry. He was restless, tired, angry. He couldn't deal with this situation of slowly dying. It wasn't fair, just no fucking fairness, just-

  
_"But why would He do this?" His sister had had always this glistening in her brown warm eyes, now it was just a second away from crying. Alfie had just told her the story of Job. He was tired. It was their first week in England and Alfie already hated it here. The language, the food, living on the fucking street, the people with their ugly faces. Everything._   
_He looked at his sister. His hands played absentmindedly with her oily hair. All of them hadn't washed for three fucking weeks. Alfie wanted to cry._   
_"Brother?," she had asked. Her concerned voice reminding him of their mother. Alfie sighed deeply. He took his sister's small body on his lap. He coughed._   
_"Because he could, I think." She cradled around in his lap like a cat and stared at him._   
_"What?," she whispered. Alfie waited. He felt her fragile body trembling. He shouldn't have said that. Now this poor little sparrow was devastated for the rest of her life._   
_"Why would the great creator torture his most loyal servant?"_   
_Alfie sighed again. He caressed his sister's cheek. It was cold._   
_"Because he wanted to know how much Job loved him."_   
_She blinked at him._   
_"Why didn't he ask?" Again his hands were playing with her hair. He thought about that. Why didn't God just ask Job? He knew the answer. People will say a lot of shit just to please the other. It's the only thing you have to learn as a child. What to say how and when. Nothing else. You have to please people, the rest is history. But what should he say to his little sister? His head hammered, full with horrible images of burnt villages and dead jews._   
_"Because you remember Adama and Eve?" Her eyes were big and round, but he could see a little flame of understanding there. Such a smart child._   
_"Would you trust the word of people after what Adama and Eve had done?"_   
_She shook her head, her locks flying around._   
_"So you see, God had to make sure, Job really, really loved him."_   
_She nodded._

  
A loud banging at the door. Alfie jumped. What the fuck? Tommy had a fucking key. His heart running a marathon, blood pumping through his veins. His gut told him to get under the fucking bed and Alfie listened. Not a second to early. The banging was replaced with a blast and 4 fucking pair of shoes entered, while Alfie watched carefully from under his bed. He didn't recognize these shoes. Ollie had fucking rags around his shoes to keep his feet warm. No, these shoes were fucking sweet and nice and shiny. He knew no Jew or Gipsy with such beautiful shoes. Alfie pressed a hand against his mouth. Fuck.  
They mumbled something and Alfie recognized the melody. Italian. Really? Italians...here? Hadn't Tommy killed them?

  
Fuck.

Alfie was fucked. He wanted to breath but his own fucking hand stopped him. Why? Why not just get out there and be shot and then end his fucking shitty life?  
Because of pride. Goddamn, this pride would be his fucking end. Like Job. Job wasn't a loyal servant, Alfie recognized. He was a pride little fucking bitch. Job hadn't asked for help until the very fucking end.  
And now Alfie was here and thought about how getting out of there and then dying a heroic death.  
Which seemed impossible because the shoes were coming nearer and nearer. He remembered his first pair of shoes in England. He had been fucking 12 years old. Before that he had been like bloody Ollie. Rags as shoes. He had hated the winter so fucking much.  
The mumbling became louder but Alfie still couldn't make out any words. They weren't talking Italian. It was Sicilian. Goddamnit.

The first pair of expensive shoes was now only inches away from his nose. A ruffling. Someone turned the blanket around.

"Fa caldo!"

 _"It's warm!_ "

Fuck. He was gonna die. Now. Shot under a fucking bed. Alfie closed his eyes. So be it. At least Cyrill was fine.

  
Bang.

First shot.

Bang.

Second shot.

Bang.

Third shot.

Bang.

A scream.

Alfie immediately crawled from under his bed, over the corpse of guy- who- almost- killed him and tried to stand up. A fight was happening right in front of him. Between Tommy and an Italian bastard. It wasn't Changretta. At least Alfie hoped. It was a strange fight. Both of them were trying to get the gun out of each others faces, while at the same time pointing at each other. Alfie coughed, stretched his hand out, to Nr. 1 dead Italian, took his gun, pointed at Guy fighting Tommy , pulled the trigger.

Bang.

Fourth shot.

The man who fought against Tommy became slack like a rag doll and fell down on Tommy, who fell on the floor.

It was quiet now. Alfie slowly walked to the two men.

"Where's Cyrill?"  
Tommy looked at him. His face was covered in blood.  
"I tied him behind the house."  
"Why ain't he barking?"  
Tommy sighed. His blue eyes got a very annoyed look.  
"Would you please help me get this fucking meatball off me?"  
Alfie frowned.

  
"Naaaa....I almost died because of ya. I'll go and find Cyrill."

  
He took a huge step over Tommy who was buried under this meatball and went outside.  
Cyrill waited for him tied behind the house with a scarf around his snout. "Poor thing," Alfie sighed softly, carefully loosen Cyrill, who then softly licked his face.  
When he returned, Tommy silently sat on the couch. Blood still on his face, his eyes staring into nothing. Alfie coughed. No reaction. Cyrill sat down next to Tommy. Nothing. Alfie caressed his beard and looked down to the 4 dead bodies who covered his new made floor.

"Tommy, touch Cyrill, then you'll get better." He knew this look from himself, his brothers, his soldiers. Being in the heat of action they were all fine. The moment the gun left their hand and the fight was over, everyone fucking lost it. A lot of the men had gone to the horses, touching them, or had just stared for hours into absolutely nothing.  
Slowly, very slowly Tommy touched the dog. And in a strange moment of kindness Alfie squeezed himself next to Tommy, lay his arm around him and pulled him close.  
"It's fine," he whispered. "It's fine."


	4. Refugee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm done running, Tommy, I'm done being the running jew."

It's weird to write again...thanks for all of you who are probably still reading this, I thank you from the bottom of my heart :))

_________

Refugee

 

They burned the corpses behind the house. It smelled horribly. Alfie never could get used to it. It drove him insane the smell. All of Russia had smelled like that. Smelled of burning corpses, burning villages, burning jews. So when he and Tommy finally threw the last of these idiotic Italians into the fire, his brain shut down. He ran back into the house where he found a shivering Cyrill under the sheets in his bed and joined him. As he was realising slowly, very slowly that he was literally lying under a fuckig sheet with his dog, Alfie didn't know that to do next. Tommy was probably already back. And probably asked himself how this jewish pussy had managed to rule half of London's underground world. Alfie listened to footsteps. Nothing. Was Tommy not yet in the house?

Alfie softly called out Tommys name and lifted the sheets. No Tommy standing at his bedside. Alfie hoped this crazy Gipsy was still standing at the fire. Though if he did, Alfie had to admit, he wouldn't know if he let Tommy back into the house. Watching people die wasn't his speciality. And everyone who did it, was for Alfie a fucking crazy maniac who deserved a bullet in his head.

A crack. Alfie was on his feet.

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, what the fuck was that._

He ran into the living room, where Tommy Shelby was literally........ _packing...... bags._

Alfie stopped.

"Tommy?," he asked. The gipsy didn't stop his hasty movements and if Alfie didn't know better Tommy seemed panicked. Alfie coughed. "Tommy!," he said, louder, aggressiv.

Tommy finally turned around. And yeah, Alfie had been right. This man was in absolute panic. And Alfie didn't like it. He looked like back in the day, when his son had been stolen by this fucking crazy bishop and Alfie hadn't known it. He hadn't known that children where in the fucking game. Alfie only had pity for two things on this planet: animals and children, because they are the same. Children are never mean because they can and they're honest, the same with animals. An animal would never hurt you out of spite.

So, Tommy sat on the floor, blue eyes staring at him, hands trembling. He looked like Alfie's mother moments before she was pulled out the house, surrounded by Russian gojim. Alfie's heart skipped.

"Tommy, what the fuck is going on here?" His voice raspy, unsure.

Tommy licked his lips, stood up, still trembling, his hands in his hair, eyes closed.

"We must go, Alfie."

Tommy opened his blue eyes.

"Now."

Alfie looked at him, scratched his beard and sighed deeply.

"Finally and I thought you'd never leave," turned around and went back to bed, leaving a devastated Shelby behind.

________

Alfie liked dogs the most. Even the smell wasn't a problem, so when he returned to bed, with a still shivering Cyrill, he didn't care. Cyrill was warm and licked his face carefully and Alfie had to smile. A sudden fatigue fell on him like a giant stone and his whole body ached.

So this Gipsy wanted to leave, sure, why not? These Italians seemed to still have business with him, so he should return into this shithole, he calls home and turn things right.

The moment Alfie wanted to close his eyes, a fucking someone pulled his sheet away and whispered in a low dangerous voice his name.

"Alfie fucking Salomon."

Alfie blinked. And blinked right into a pistol pointed at him. He looked up and smiled softly. His body ached and he could barely see soemthing out of tiredness, but fuck it, a certain Shelby wanted to rob him of his last healthy sleep, so fucking be it. Moaning, he sat up.

"Tommy, dear, what the fuck is wrong with you? You think, it's funny to wake me up with a pistol in my fucking face?"

Tommy still trembled. Not much. But still. He reminded Alfie of a lost kitten in the rain. Okay, maybe Alfie had pity with three things on this planet: animals, children and yes, Tommy Shelby was the third. Alfie was tired, he wanted to sleep, but this Gipsy demanded his attention. He breathed out. 

"Come on, Tommy, tell me what's on your mind." Alfie's right hand was tapping softly on the space right next to him.

Tommy didn't sit down. He didn't do anything. Just stood there, stubbornly staring at a point above Alfie's head. _What a ridiculous child_ , Alfie thought. _What a ridiculous child with no ways to speak..._

"Tommy, I don't know if you've noticed but I'm dying. And I'm in pain and I want nothing more right now, than fucking sleep, so please, for the love of the creator or whatever you fucking believe in, tell me what your problem is."

Tommy blinked, but still stared aggressivley at a point over his head.

"They won't stop."

"I think so too and I think you should go to that fuckhole you call home and take care of these Italians but what the actual flying fuck thing has that to do with me?"

And Alfie realised something only in that moment. 6 weeks. This gipsy was already here for 6 weeks. 6 fucking weeks, this asshole had walked the dog, had helped him get into bed, had slept often right next to him. 

"Tommy, dear...I will die sooner or later, it doesn't matter if I get killed by the Italians."

"Who will bury you?"

Alfie chuckled.

"Tommy, dear, correct me if I'm wrong, but could it be that you, Tommy fucking Shelby the idiot of Birmingham, cares for a Jew?"

It took a moment and then blue eyes watched him carefully. Alfie felt like a a mouse and Tommy was the snake.

"You come with me, Alfie. No discussion."

Alfie's lips curled into a grin. Well then, he had to fight, wasn't it?

"Oh, Tommy...Tommy, Tommy, Tommy....," he grasped for Tommy's wrist, held it between his hand. "I'm done running, Tommy, I'm done being the running jew."

Alfie made little circles on Tommy's warm skin. He had to think how to get this Gipsy away from him.

"You brought the Italians to me, so you will bring their heads to me, that's your fucking job right now, you understand?"

Blue eyes fixed on him.

"What if you die?"

"Then you weren't fast enough, I guess."

Tommy stared at him. Alfie could see it work fast behind these normally bored looking eyes. He smiled. At least something. At least this boy didn't have to see him die. Thank God, the Almighty...

Tommy nodded. "Alright, Alfie, I take care of the Italians. Meanwhile." Tommy looked at his gun, looked back at Alfie, chuckled. "Meanwhile you take care of this."

A sudden blow on his neck. White lightnings were flashing in front of his eyes.

___________________

 

What will happen with Alfie? And what will Tommy do? All that and much more in the next episode of "Kaddish" ;)

 


	5. War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> React not act is what you learn in war.

IM SORRY IN ADVANCE ITS SHORT BUT I HAD TO POST IT TO FINALLY SLEEP AGAIN XD

thanks for all the kudos

bye!

 

 

_______________________________________________

 

 

 

War is destroying you. Fragments you and reassembles you. But never quite, you know? Something is always missing. It gets lost. Just like that it is gone. Sometimes you are still looking for it. You reach for it in your trouser pocket. You look after it when a train hisses by, a car rumbles by. But that's not what you're looking for. It's gone. And this "being away" makes you an eternal seeker.

Probably this "something" is what forces Tommy to knock Alfie out. Which forces Tommy to put Alfie's unconscious body in the car. Which forces Tommy to call Ollie to pick up the stupid dog. Which forces Tommy to pack his bags and just drive off. He doesn't know where to go. He only knows, he has to leave. Before he closes the door completely...he pauses for a few seconds. His eyes rest on the waving sea. Then he drives off.

 

It is raining. Drops drop by drop, drums a well-known song. A song of war, nights full of wet jackets and hoarse necks, gurgling voices that made the loved ones flinch. And in the end yourself. But that is normal. The war takes everything from you, if not your life, then your life before it. The war murders immediately without you firing a single shot. In war you learn one thing to perfection. Reaction, not action. Wait and see. The most important rule. You do not wait for the opponent the other way round.  And so the eternal-seeker becomes the eternal-waiting. Funny, isn't it? No matter what you do, it is always the wrong thing. Was that the reason why he was here?

"Tommy?" asks Alfie's voice. Alfie's hand has already found Tommys again. Always this touch. Alfie was so different from him. Narrower, more touching. Skin to skin. Tommy let it happen. He let it happen because he longed for it and hated himself so much for it. Tommy keeps silent, switches and drives without even shaking off Alfie's hand once. The rain continues to drum. It gets grayer. Colours swim in the constant rain, form anew, become long-forgotten figures, nightmares. Tommy's heart flutters. He tries to concentrate on Alfie's warm hand. But the rain is not only drumming anymore, it has become a cannon rain, fires and bangs. Tommy's eyes wander, trying to hold on. They slip.

"TOMMY!"

 

Tommy bleeds. He notices that immediately. He knows the feeling of blood sticking to his temple. It must be a lot of blood, it's stuck to his eyes. He tries to straighten up.  He can't. He can do nothing. He can only wait. Or?

"TOMMY?  WAKE UP!"

Who screams like that? Tommy wants to tell him to shut the fuck up. But he says nothing. He is silent. Wait and be silent. Two things he does pretty well. Oh God, he longs for a cigarette. Someone opens the left side door. He hears it, he sees nothing, but hears. It must be Alfie, right? Think Tommy, come on... that must be Alfie... yes... yes Alfie, he must be. So it is Alfie who grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him to the right, out of the car. It smells like rain, but nothing drips down on him. He wants to sleep. He wants to rest. But Alfie doesn't let him. He tugs at him like a wild dog. Tommy wants to calm him down. But how do you rest a wild dog?

"Tommy? Tommy don't do this to me, asshole. If you die in front of me, I'll kill you. Open your fucking eyes!"

But Tommy can't do that. He can only lie there and listen.

"Tommy!"

Alfie is much too loud. He can hear him breathing, hard. Is he in pain?  Tommy wants to move his hand, but he can't do that either.  His head is so heavy, but there is something soft that catches him.

"Tommy, don't drive me crazy. Wake up, come on!"

Alfie's shirt? At least it smells like that. Funny, Tommy thinks. He had already noticed Alfie's smell back then. It has something of resin. It reminds Tommy of childhood. He should say that to Alfie once. In general he should say a lot to Alfie. Even if it is meaningless. But Tommy wants to say it   He wants to say so many things. Slowly, it takes so long for him to open his mouth. He's much too tired.

It is raining again, he feels it on his cheek. The cool water calms him down. "Alfie?" he mumbles. But the rain is too loud. Who can hear him there?

Alfie's rough hand strokes through his hair, over his forehead, over his lips back to his forehead. Again the hair, the forehead. The thumb wanders over Tommy's lips, over his cheeks. And Tommy hears a strange song about it...mumbled again and again:

 _Jitgadal vejitkadasch sch`mei rabah_...

At some point Tommy has enough strength. He can raise his hand. But only a little. But then it is suddenly held.

"You are still alive..." He presses Alfie's hand very briefly.

"Oh Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy... you're one of the few who came back from the prayer for the dead." Again Tommy squeezes Alfie's hand. He never wants to let them go again. A jerk goes through his body. He is pressed firmly against soft, warm skin. "I got you."

I know, Tommy thinks. Somehow I never doubted it either.

 

(SORRY ITS SHORT I KNOW)


End file.
